


Anamnesis

by sadsparties



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen, Hurt, Memory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-09-23
Packaged: 2017-12-27 10:28:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/977682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadsparties/pseuds/sadsparties
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre remembers...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anamnesis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ColonelDespard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColonelDespard/gifts).



> This was written in a fit of rapture (I kid, I kid) caused by the long-awaited update of Despard's "The Truth We Owe the Dead". The wait was well worth it. :) -combeferrescannon

“I thought this might help.”

The clink of the cup landing on the table made him smile. It was freshly made tea, he knew, and the familiar smell sent him a wave of warm memories that lulled him to sleep. He muttered a word of thanks and blew the steam off the rim. The brown liquid oozed down his throat, straight through his chest, and down to his very self.

“Won’t you sleep now?”

He shook his head resignedly. There were papers to write, stories to tell, words to put down before he could lose sense of what they meant. He stifled a yawn as he nestled back against the chair, the ceiling providing a distorted view of the world.

“Can I stay here?”

Another cup accompanied the one on the table, and the smooth smell of coffee filled his senses. He wondered why he ever gave up on the foul drink. Determined elbows set themselves on the counter, and he pouted and fussed on the comforts of being watched.

“If you close your eyes a while, you can rest.”

The palm of a hand covered his eyes, and he bent his head back to lean against the steady torso behind him. It was firm, and it was solid, and it was home. Weariness retreated. Everything was peacefully clear.

“At least allow me this.”

A warm arm enveloped his shoulders, and he found himself releasing a sigh of complete serenity and surrendering to the embrace. He wondered how long the moment would last.

“See?” the voice said. “You will be well… Combeferre.”

The harsh wind slapped his cheek, and he woke to the dark expanse of his room. A resolute candle illuminated the lonely cup perched on the table. The steam was all but gone, as non-existent as the chair that was once across from him. He had moved it to the basement where he could never set eyes on them again.

He sat up and felt the stiffness settled on his shoulders. It was sharper than the dull ache in his chest, the ache that had remained there for the past five months. Five months since the barricade and he was still having nightmares. As he pressed a hand against his shoulder, Combeferre struggled to remember the ghost of a lost touch. He drowned the last of his tea. He was very, very cold.


End file.
